Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 110: Mission Bleeding

Chapter 110: Mission Bleeding

Amari’s blade hovered just above the spear wielder’s throat, his breath ragged, his shoulder screaming with pain. The forest around him was a ruin of smoke and splinters, but for a moment, everything was still.

Then he saw her.

A flicker of movement beyond the treeline—small, fast, unmistakable. The girl. She was running, barefoot and wild-eyed, tearing through the underbrush like a deer bolting from a fire.

Amari’s heart dropped.

She was supposed to be secured. Watched. Contained.

He stepped back instinctively, eyes tracking her silhouette as it vanished between the trees. His mind snapped to the mission. The Ocean brothers. The rendezvous. The leverage she represented. If she reached the ridge—

A sharp crunch behind him.

Amari spun, but too late.

The gauntlet fighter, bloodied and half-collapsed, had surged up from the dirt with a roar, both fists glowing red. He lunged, aiming to crush Amari’s spine with a double-fisted Tremor slam.

Amari didn’t think.

He moved.

He dropped low, planted his hand in the dirt, and flipped backward in a tight arc. His boots cleared the strike by inches as the gauntlets slammed into the ground, detonating a shockwave that split the earth where he’d just stood.

He landed behind the man, twisted mid-air, and drove his blade clean through the fighter’s back.

The glow in the gauntlets flickered.

Then died.

The man dropped to his knees, gasping, and collapsed face-first into the dirt.

Amari stood over him, chest heaving, blood dripping from his blade. His eyes flicked back toward the treeline, but the girl was gone.

So was the mission.

He clenched his jaw.

Enough.

He turned back to the remaining two fighters—both still alive, both barely standing. The blink dancer leaned against a tree, one arm limp, his face pale and bloodied. The spear wielder had crawled to retrieve his weapon, but his hands trembled too much to lift it.

They saw the change in Amari before he moved.

His stance shifted—lower, tighter. His grip on the sword adjusted. Not for defense. Not for control.

For the kill.

The mask didn’t change, but something behind it did. The air around him felt heavier. Sharper. Like the forest itself had gone still in anticipation.

The blink dancer blinked once—then again, faster, trying to reposition.

Amari didn’t wait.

He lunged forward, faster than before, blade flashing in a brutal arc. The dancer reappeared mid-blink, eyes wide with panic, and barely managed to deflect the strike with a dagger. But Amari didn’t stop. He pressed in, relentless, each blow heavier than the last.

Steel clashed. Sparks flew. The dancer blinked again—left, then right—but Amari was already there, reading the rhythm, cutting off the angles. He slammed the hilt into the man’s ribs, then swept his legs out from under him.

The dancer hit the ground hard.

Amari raised his blade.

Maverick’s fists were raw. Blood slicked his knuckles, and his coat hung in scorched tatters. One eye was nearly swollen shut, and every breath scraped his ribs like broken glass. But he refused to fall.

Across from him, the fire wielder stood tall, his cloak of ember-threaded cloth pulsing with heat. His chest rose and fell in heavy bursts, and his arms glowed with molten light. The ground beneath his boots hissed with every step.

They circled each other in the ruins of the watchtower, the air between them warped by heat and fury.

"You’re slowing," Maverick muttered, voice hoarse.

The fire wielder grinned, teeth bloodied. "So are you."

Then they clashed.

The fire wielder swept his arm wide, unleashing a wave of flame that roared across the broken stone. Maverick dove through it, coat catching fire at the hem. He rolled, came up low, and drove a punch into the man’s ribs. The impact staggered him—but only for a second.

The counter came fast.

A backhanded strike wreathed in fire caught Maverick across the jaw. He reeled, vision flashing white, and barely raised his arms in time to block the next blow. Heat seared his skin. He twisted, trying to break the rhythm, but the fire wielder pressed in, relentless.

They grappled, fists and elbows flying. Maverick landed a knee to the gut, but took a flaming punch to the shoulder in return. The pain was blinding. He stumbled, and the fire wielder seized the opening.

A blast of heat erupted point-blank, sending Maverick crashing into the wall of the tower. Stone cracked behind him. He dropped to one knee, coughing, the taste of ash thick in his mouth.

The fire wielder didn’t let up.

He surged forward, grabbed Maverick by the collar, and hurled him across the floor. Maverick hit hard, rolled, and barely managed to rise before another wave of fire swept toward him.

He dove behind a fallen beam, the flames licking past.

His heart pounded. His limbs trembled. He was losing ground.

This wasn’t a fight anymore.

It was survival.

The fire wielder stalked forward, slow and deliberate, flames coiling around his arms like serpents. "You’re not him," he said. "You’re not the one they fear."

Maverick wiped blood from his mouth and forced himself upright. "No," he said, voice low. "But I’m the one that doesn’t stop."

He charged.

The fire wielder met him head-on.

Their fists collided in a shockwave of heat and force that shattered the last standing wall of the tower. Stone rained down around them. The floor cracked beneath their feet.

The explosion of their last collision had leveled the tower’s remains, sending stone and ash into the sky like a volcanic breath. For a moment, everything was still—just smoke, silence, and the faint crackle of dying embers.

Then Maverick rose from the rubble.

His coat was gone, burned away. His chest was bare, streaked with soot and blood, muscles trembling with effort. One eye was swollen shut, but the other burned with focus. He rolled his shoulders, spat blood, and turned toward the shifting smoke.

The fire wielder stepped through it like a god of ruin.

His cloak had burned away completely, revealing skin etched with glowing ember-veins. His eyes were twin coals, and every breath he took shimmered with heat. The ground beneath him blackened with each step.

Neither spoke.

They didn’t need to.

They charged.

Maverick ducked under a flaming hook and drove his fist into the man’s ribs. The fire wielder grunted, twisted, and slammed his elbow into Maverick’s spine. Maverick stumbled, caught himself, and retaliated with a spinning backfist that cracked across the man’s jaw.

The fire wielder staggered, but didn’t fall.

He raised both hands and unleashed a torrent of flame.

Maverick didn’t dodge.

He ran through it.

The fire engulfed him, but he kept moving, teeth clenched, eyes locked on his target. He emerged from the blaze like a demon, smoke trailing from his shoulders, and tackled the fire wielder to the ground.

They rolled across the scorched earth, trading blows—raw, brutal, unrelenting.

Maverick slammed his knee into the man’s side. The fire wielder answered with a headbutt that split Maverick’s brow. Blood poured down his face, but he didn’t stop. He grabbed the man by the throat and drove him into the dirt.

The fire wielder’s hands flared.

Maverick saw it too late.

A blast of heat erupted point-blank, launching him backward. He hit the ground hard, skidding across the stone, smoke rising from his skin.

He groaned, pushed himself up.

The fire wielder was already on his feet, breathing hard, fists glowing.

"You’re still standing?" he rasped.

Maverick wiped blood from his mouth. "You’re still talking?"

They charged again.

This time, the ground cracked beneath their feet. Each strike echoed like thunder. Maverick’s fists moved like pistons, each one aimed to break bone. The fire wielder’s blows came with heat and force, every punch a furnace.

Neither gave ground.

Neither held back.

They were past pain now. Past fear. Past restraint.

This was the peak.

And only one of them would survive it.